Plot Twist In Paradise
by IAmHerEmma

 

 

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Chapter Eight: Welcome Drinks and Sentences to Serve

 

The dock was wider than I expected, built from weathered planks that had clearly seen enough tourists to stop being impressed by them. Staff in turquoise polos were already lined up along the edge — four of them, tanned and smiling, ready to greet us.

"Welcome to The Whispering Palms," the closest one said, a woman with her hair in a low braid and a tray of drinks. Something tall, something pale green, something with a sprig of mint that was trying very hard. "Complimentary welcome cocktails. Passionfruit and coconut."

Milo had a glass in his hand before she finished the sentence.

"Oh, that's incredible," he said, after a sip that could not possibly have been long enough to taste anything. "Is there alcohol in this?"

"Just a splash of rum."

"Then I'll need two." He took a second glass. "One for the journey and one for the arrival. I'm Milo, by the way. I plan to be your favourite guest."

The woman laughed. She'd probably heard some version of that from every guest who'd ever stepped off the catamaran, but Milo said it like he meant it, which was worse.

I took a glass. Sweet, cold, the kind of drink that tasted like an expensive apology for whatever your day had been. I could work with that.

Talia took one and immediately started describing the flavour profile to Cass, who sipped hers in silence — conducting some private evaluation the rest of us weren't invited to. Renee took one too. Didn't comment on it. Just drank it, looking at the island the way she looked at most things — like she was forming an opinion she had no plans to share.

"If you'd like to follow me," the woman said, gesturing toward a row of open-sided golf carts parked on a paved path behind the dock, "we'll take you to reception. Your luggage will be unloaded separately and brought to you there."

Two carts. Three seats across in each. Five people. Somebody was going to end up in a configuration they hadn't chosen.

Talia solved it. "Adrianna, Cass, front cart," she said, already walking. "Let's go."

Cass followed, water bottle in hand, apparently indifferent to the seating politics. Milo and Renee ended up on the second cart — Milo cheerfully, Renee with the expression of someone who had just been assigned a group project partner by a teacher who didn't take requests.

The carts pulled away from the dock and onto a path that wound through the grounds.

The path curved through clusters of actual palms — tall, leaning slightly, throwing shadows across the stone — past open-air pavilions with dark wood beams and white fabric shifting in the breeze. A pool off to the right caught the late afternoon light, the water so still it looked photoshopped, and beyond it the beach stretched out toward a bar sitting right at the edge of it all.

I was not going to get any writing done here. That was immediately clear.

"Okay," Talia said, gripping my arm. "This place — I want to renew our vows here."

Cass leaned forward from behind us. "We've been on the island for ninety seconds."

"And I've already made a decision. That's efficiency."

"It's stunning. It's actually stunning. Look at the bungalows."

The bungalows were scattered among the trees — white walls, wooden shutters, little porches with chairs angled toward the water. I was already mentally ranking it above every apartment I'd ever lived in, which felt disloyal but accurate.

"It's beautiful," I said.

"Beautiful? That's all you're giving me? This place is — I'm going to design a whole brand package for them and send it to the manager uninvited. Cass, I'm doing it."

"Please don't harass the resort staff on our anniversary trip."

"It's not harassment, it's networking."

I glanced back at the cart behind us.

Milo was talking — of course he was — gesturing at the scenery with one hand while the other held his welcome drink at an angle that suggested the laws of physics were a suggestion. Renee was sitting next to him with her arms crossed, staring ahead with the fixed determination of someone trying very hard to enjoy a view while a human foghorn narrated it for her.

Every few seconds Milo would point at something and turn to her, clearly expecting a response, and Renee would close her eyes for just a fraction too long — the kind of blink that was doing the work of a deep breath. Milo would absorb this, recalibrate, and try again with even more enthusiasm. At one point she turned and said something to him — one sentence, from the look of it — and Milo threw his head back and laughed while Renee went back to staring straight ahead, jaw tight, clearly regretting whatever she'd given him.

It was like watching someone try to befriend a particularly elegant cat. The cat was not interested. The cat had made that clear. The man had decided the cat was playing hard to get.

The carts pulled up to an open-air reception area — high ceiling, wooden beams, ceiling fans turning slowly, a long desk made from reclaimed wood, plants climbing every surface they could reach. The kind of lobby that said: we're expensive, but we're not going to be weird about it.

A man was already walking toward us before the carts had fully stopped. Unhurried. Smiling. One hand raised in a half-wave that somehow felt personal even from twenty feet away.

He was solidly built, early forties, tanned deep enough that it had clearly stopped being seasonal a long time ago. Short hair going silver at the temples. The resort polo pressed and tucked, the way some people wear uniforms after long enough — less clothing, more skin.

"Welcome to Coral Key," he said, hand out. "I'm Emmett Hale. I run this place — or it runs me, depending on the week."

Milo shook his hand with both of his. I was starting to understand that was just how Milo shook hands. "Milo. I already love it here. I'm ready to never leave."

"We get that a lot," Emmett said. "We're glad you're here."

He went down the line — handshake, name, eye contact that lasted exactly long enough to feel personal without tipping into weird. When he got to me, I shook his hand.

"Adrianna Moore."

"Adrianna. Welcome."

"Thank you." I paused. "You wouldn't happen to know a Maribel Grant, would you?"

Emmett's face opened up. "Maribel Grant," he said, and there was real warmth in it. "We were at Columbia together. Different programs, same campus."

"She's my editor. She's the one who told me about this place."

"Small world." He shook his head, smiling. "Is she still terrifying?"

"Consistently."

He laughed. "That sounds right. Well, tell her I said thank you for sending you our way. And that she still owes me a visit. Maribel doesn't recommend things unless she means it. I hope we live up to her standards."

"Her standards are unreasonable. Don't worry about it."

He smiled at that, then moved to Renee, who shook his hand with the crisp efficiency of someone completing a required step in a process. "Renee Miller."

"Renee. Welcome."

"Now," he said. "Reception will get you checked in and sorted with your bungalow keys. Quick note — the island operates on WiFi. You'll find the network name and password in your welcome packet at the front desk. Cell service is limited out here, so WiFi is how you'll stay connected." He paused. "Some of our guests consider that a feature."

"I consider it a feature," Cass said.

"That's the spirit." He clapped his hands together lightly. "Let's get you checked in."

Check-in was straightforward. Names, IDs, sign here. The receptionist handed us each a welcome packet and a bungalow key and walked us through the usual — breakfast hours, pool towels, the bar. Milo had three follow-up questions about the bar. I had zero questions but took the packet anyway and pretended to read it while Talia, next to me, was already flagging pages in hers for Cass. Renee took her key, signed her form, and stepped aside. Done. The rest of us were still sorting through our packets when a man came around the corner at a pace that suggested he had somewhere extremely important to be and that place was us.

He was early thirties, toned, with a sunburned nose that looked like a permanent condition and a lanyard around his neck with a whistle on it.

"There they are," he said, like he'd been looking for us specifically. "New arrivals. I can always tell. You've got that look — the 'I can't believe this place is real' look. Love it. Never gets old."

"Lyle Peterson," Emmett said. There was a patience in it that suggested this introduction came with a history. "Our activities coordinator."

"Activities coordinator, chief morale officer, sunset appreciation specialist, and the guy who's going to make sure you have the best time of your life." Lyle was already pulling a stack of papers from a clipboard tucked under his arm. "Which brings me to these."

He pressed a schedule into each of our hands with the reverence of a man distributing sacred texts. Printed in colour. Every day of the week mapped out in a grid of events that would have given a conference planner anxiety.

I scanned mine. Beach yoga, sunrise meditation, guided nature walk, snorkelling excursion, cooking class, cocktail making, game night, karaoke, bonfire night, open mic, couples workshop, sunrise kayaking, sunset cocktails. Every hour accounted for. I was exhausted just looking at it.

"This is... comprehensive," I said.

"That's the goal," Lyle said, beaming. "Something for everyone. You don't have to do all of it — but I will say, the people who lean in tend to have the best time. Last week we had a guy show up saying he was just going to sleep and drink for seven days, and by Wednesday he was leading the karaoke lineup."

"I want to be that guy," Milo said. He was already scanning the schedule. "Wait — cooking class? What are we cooking?"

"Caribbean fusion. Thursday afternoon. Chef Diana runs it. She's incredible. You'll learn jerk seasoning and rum cake and you'll leave a different person."

"I do enjoy a good jerk," Milo said.

Talia snorted. Cass closed her eyes. Lyle blinked once, processed it, and pointed at Milo with his clipboard.

"That's — yeah. Chef Diana's jerk is the best on the island."

"I bet it is," Milo said.

Talia was studying the schedule with the focus of a military strategist. "Cass, look at this. Bonfire night is Wednesday. Karaoke is Thursday. We can do the nature walk Tuesday morning and then the pool in the afternoon and then—"

"We're on vacation, Talia. Not running an itinerary."

"Planning is how I relax."

Cass looked at me. "She's going to have us on a schedule by tomorrow morning."

"I heard that."

"You were meant to."

Renee had accepted her schedule, glanced at it, folded it, and put it in the pocket of her bag without comment.

"What about you?" Lyle said, turning to Renee. "Anything catch your eye?"

"I'll let you know," Renee said, in a tone that meant she would not be letting him know.

Lyle held her gaze for a second, processed whatever he needed to process, and pivoted back to the group with his smile fully intact. "Oh — one more thing. We've got a mixer tonight at seven-thirty over at the main lounge and bar." He gestured down the path behind reception. "You can't miss it. Music, drinks, a chance to meet the other guests. It's casual, it's fun, and I will personally guarantee you a good time or your money back."

"There's no charge for it," Emmett said.

"Exactly. Free good time. No risk."

"We're in," Talia said immediately, grabbing Cass's arm. "All of us. Right?"

"Absolutely," Milo said.

I hesitated. After the day I'd had — the airport, the plane, the van, the boat, and now a man with a whistle telling me about sunset appreciation — I had earned the right to lie facedown on a bed until tomorrow.

"Maybe," I said.

Talia turned on me. "Maybe? We just had the best time on that boat and you're going to ditch us on the first night? That's cold, Adrianna."

I looked at her. She was doing the face. The wide eyes, the slight pout. She'd known me for two hours and she'd already figured out exactly how to make saying no feel like kicking a puppy.

"Fine," I said. "Seven-thirty."

"That's what I'm talking about," Lyle said, and clapped once, loudly, like a man whose faith in humanity had just been restored.

Emmett stepped forward. "Alright — let's get you to your bungalows. If you can identify your luggage over by the carts, staff will load it up and take you over."

I spotted my suitcase and carry-on near the luggage rack and pointed them out to one of the staff.

"Seven-thirty," Talia called out as the carts began to split off in different directions. "Don't be late."

"We won't," Milo said.

I waved, and then the cart turned down a path toward the bungalows and the voices faded and it was just me and a staff member driving in silence through the palm trees. We stopped in front of a small white building with wooden shutters and a porch that faced the water.

"Bungalow fourteen," the staff member said. "Ocean view."

"Thank you."

He carried my bags inside and set them by the closet.

"You're all set. Is there anything else I can help with?"

"No, this is perfect. Thank you."

"Enjoy your stay." He smiled, stepped out, and the door closed behind him.

And then it was quiet. Actually quiet. Just wind and water and nothing else.

The bungalow was bright and airy — white walls, wide windows, late afternoon light pouring in sideways. The bed was ridiculous. White linens, too many pillows, the kind of mattress you look at and think I will never leave this. Two chairs and a low table by the wall. A bathroom through a doorway on the left with tile floors and a deep tub I was already planning my evening around.

And a desk against the far wall, next to a window that looked directly out at the water.

I sat on the bed. The mattress was as good as it looked, which felt unfair. The light was coming in through the windows at a low angle, warm and golden, and the room smelled like clean linen and salt air and I couldn't hear a single other human being. I just sat there for a while. No phone, no laptop, no plan. Just the bed and the light and the sound of the water outside, and the slow, unfamiliar feeling of not needing to be anywhere else.

Then I reached into my tote and pulled out my phone. I hadn't looked at it since before the boat.

The screen was dark. I found the welcome packet on the desk, flipped to the WiFi page, and connected. The messages loaded in a rush.

Sasha. Three texts, spaced about forty minutes apart.

Sasha: Have you landed yet or did the plane crash

Sasha: If you're dead please text me so I know

Sasha: Ade I swear to God if you don't respond in the next hour I'm filing a missing persons report

I smiled. Classic escalation. Love, impatience, threat. The Sasha trifecta.

Me: I'm alive. I'm here. The island is stupidly beautiful.

Her reply came in under a minute.

Sasha: FINALLY. I was composing your eulogy. It was mostly about how you never returned my blue sweater

Me: I returned it. You said it smelled different and gave it back.

Sasha: It smelled like your apartment. That's not the same sweater anymore. Anyway. How is it? Show me the room.

I held up the phone and took a photo of the bungalow — the bed, the windows, the light. Sent it. Then a second one toward the desk and the view.

Sasha: Oh my god

Sasha: That BED. Ade. That bed is obscene.

Me: It really is

Sasha: And that view?? Ade. I hate you. What's the rest of it like?

I lay back on the bed and typed with my phone held above my face.

Me: It's nice. Like actually really nice. I don't want to talk about it because I'll jinx it.

Sasha: Ade giving a compliment without a disclaimer?? The island is already working

Me: Also I made friends on the boat

Sasha: Excuse me???

Me: A married couple, Talia and Cass. And a guy called Milo.

Sasha: You made THREE friends before you even got to the island?? Look at you Ms Moore

Sasha: So you're telling me you got on a boat with strangers and actually talked to them? All of them?

Me: Not all of them. Curbside Karen is here.

Sasha: WHAT

Sasha: AT YOUR RESORT??

Me: Same resort. Same boat. Same universe that apparently won't leave me alone.

Sasha: This is the funniest thing that has ever happened to you

Me: It's really not

Sasha: It really is. You went all the way to a private island to clear your head and trouble followed you through the door

Me: She's not trouble

Sasha: Lol. You are so full of shit.

Me: Goodbye Sasha

Sasha: Rude

I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. Palm frond shadows moved across the white surface. Outside, the water and the wind and nothing else.

Then I got up and unpacked.

Suitcase first — hanging what needed hanging, folding what didn't. The wrap dress Sasha had called "the closer" got its own hanger. The closet slowly filled up with evidence that I was staying.

Then the carry-on. Chargers on the bedside table. Laptop out. Notebook out.

I carried the laptop to the desk and set it down. It stared back at me like it was waiting for one of us to start writing, and it wasn't going to be the one to go first.

I set the notebook beside it, left them both there, and went to run a bath.

The bathroom was small but good — white tile, frosted glass window, and that tub. I turned the tap and while the water ran I stood at the sink and started peeling the day off.

I found a washcloth, wet it, and wiped the makeup off — all of it, layer by layer, until the face I'd put together that morning in my apartment was gone.

I pulled the clip out and let my hair fall, then gathered it back into a loose knot — the kind that held without effort, the kind I wore when nobody was looking. Unzipped the black shirt dress, stepped out of it, hung it on the hook behind the door.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

Adrian looked back.

Same face, same eyes. Just softer. Less put together. More me.

I didn't linger. I didn't need to.

The water was perfect. I lowered myself in, leaned back, let the warmth close over my shoulders, and for about ninety seconds I achieved something approaching genuine relaxation.

Then my brain started.

You're here. You have a desk. You have a view. You have no excuse. What are you going to write? You don't know. Maribel is waiting. The deadline exists. The blank page will be right there, the same blank page from your apartment, the airport café, the plane—

I sank lower and told my brain to shut up. It didn't. It never did. But at least the water was warm.

My phone buzzed on the tile floor beside the tub. I dried one hand on the towel and checked it.

Sasha again.

Sasha: What are you doing tonight

Me: There's a mixer at 7:30. Drinks and socializing.

Sasha: Are you going

Me: I don't know. I just got here. I'm in the bath.

Sasha: Go.

Me: Sasha.

Sasha: Go to the mixer, Ade.

Me: I've been social all day. Aggressively social. I've exceeded my weekly quota.

Sasha: Good. Keep going. One more event and then you can be a hermit tomorrow.

Me: I'm not a hermit

Sasha: You were a hermit for three months. Go to the mixer. Meet people. Drink something with an umbrella in it. You're on holiday, not serving a sentence.

I stared at the ceiling. The steam was making the room soft at the edges.

Me: Talia wants me to go too

Sasha: See?? I already love Talia. Go. Stop overthinking it. When has staying in ever been the better story?

Me: Fine

Sasha: That's my girl. Now get out of the bath and go be charming.

Me: I'm always charming

Sasha: You're charming when you want to be. Tonight, make sure you want to be.

I put the phone down and sank back into the water. She was right. Annoyingly, persistently, lovingly right. I hated that about her almost as much as I needed it.

I stayed in the bath until the water cooled and my fingers looked like I'd aged thirty years, then drained it, wrapped myself in a towel, and walked back into the main room.

The laptop was still on the desk. The cursor was probably in there somewhere, waiting, patient and accusatory.

I didn't open it.

I picked up the notebook instead. Unlined pages, cream-coloured. I sat on the bed with my legs crossed, opened it to the first page, and uncapped the pen from the welcome packet.

I didn't think about what to write. I just started.

Made it to the island. Bungalow is beautiful. There's a desk by the window and a view that should be illegal and I haven't opened the laptop because I'm apparently allergic to the one thing I came here to do.

Met people on the boat. Talia — graphic designer, talks fast, laughs loud, decided we were friends before I'd finished my first sentence. Cass — her wife, divorce lawyer, quiet, watches everything, said one thing to me on the boat that I'm still thinking about and I'd rather not examine why. Milo — nurse, single, has the emotional volume of a stadium announcer but he's genuine about it. Exhausting in the best possible way.

I paused. The pen hovered.

And then there's Renee. Renee Miller. The woman who has somehow managed to be an annoyance at every single stop of this trip. I don't know what I did to deserve this level of cosmic follow-up but I'd like it to stop. And yet here I am writing about her in a notebook like a lunatic. This is not the creative breakthrough Maribel had in mind.

I stopped writing.

I read the paragraph back. Then I read it again.

I had come to this island to clear my head, and the first thing my head did was fill up with Renee Miller.

I closed the notebook. Then I opened it again, stared at the paragraph, and closed it harder.

I tossed it on the bedside table and sat there for a minute, annoyed at myself. One day. I had known this woman for one day and she was already taking up space in my head rent-free.

And she'd probably be at the mixer tonight. Which was annoying. Or she wouldn't be there, which was — also fine. Completely fine. Irrelevant.

The mixer was at seven-thirty. It was just past six. Enough time to get ready. Talia wanted me there. Milo wanted me there. Sasha had practically issued a court order.

Sasha had told me to go meet people. Maribel had told me to go have fun. Even Cass, who I'd known for an afternoon, had seen right through me on that boat. They'd all been saying the same thing.

And here I was. With people who had decided, for reasons I hadn't fully earned, that they wanted me around.

I opened the closet and stood there.

I had an hour and a half. That was more than enough time to get ready, which meant it was also more than enough time to talk myself out of going.

The wrap dress was too much for a first night. I pulled out a top, held it against myself in the mirror, put it back. Tried another one. Put that back too. I went through four options before I caught myself and stopped. It was a mixer at a resort bar, not a red carpet. Nobody was going to be grading my outfit.

I settled on one of the sundresses Sasha had picked out during our shopping trip — simple, flattering, the kind of thing she'd described as "effortless" while making very clear that the effort had been hers. I laid it out on the bed and went back to the bathroom.

The face I'd wiped clean an hour ago needed rebuilding. Not all of it — but more than I wanted to admit. Foundation, concealer, blending, the whole routine I could do half asleep and still spent too long on. I did my eyes last, kept them soft, and then moved on to my hair, which took longer than everything else combined. Down, then up, then down again. I settled on down, loosely, because "I didn't try that hard" was a look that took about twenty minutes to achieve and I had made peace with that contradiction a long time ago.

I got dressed. Checked the mirror. Adjusted a strap. Checked the mirror again.

It was fine. I was fine. I looked like a person who was going to a mixer because she wanted to, and if that wasn't entirely true yet, the mirror didn't need to know that.

I grabbed my key and my phone, stepped outside, and pulled the door shut behind me. The evening air was warm and still, and somewhere down the path, I could hear music.